Mark 6:14-29

King Herod heard of the demons cast out and the many who were anointed and cured, for Jesus' name had become known. Some were saying, “John the baptizer has been raised from the dead; and for this reason these powers are at work in him.” But others said, “It is Elijah.” And others said, “It is a prophet, like one of the prophets of old.” But when Herod heard of it, he said, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised

For Herod himself had sent men who arrested John, bound him, and put him in prison on account of Herodias, his brother Philip's wife, because Herod had married her. For John had been telling Herod, “It is not lawful for you to have your brother's wife.” And Herodias had a grudge against him, and wanted to kill him. But she could not, for Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he protected him. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him. But an opportunity came when Herod on his birthday gave a banquet for his courtiers and officers and for the leaders of Galilee. When his daughter Herodias came in and danced, she pleased Herod and his guests; and the king said to the girl, “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it.” And he solemnly swore to her, “Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom.” She went out and said to her mother, “What should I ask for?” She replied, “The head of John the baptizer.” Immediately she rushed back to the king and requested, “I want you to give me at once the head of John the Baptist on a platter.” The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her. Immediately the king sent a soldier of the guard with orders to bring John's head. He went and beheaded him in the prison, brought his head on a platter, and gave it to the girl. Then the girl gave it to her mother. When his disciples heard about it, they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.

In the past few weeks it’s been all but impossible to escape the death of Michael Jackson. Like many I talked to, I was a little irritated that Jackson’s death took center stage in the media while attention to world affairs seemed to have evaporated. But if the truth be known, what I was really disappointed about in it all was that on all the channels I tuned into, I wasn’t able to view one of the Jackson’s music videos in its entirety—not one that allowed me to watch him dance, really dance, again.

I did love watching him dance—from the jumping and whirling he did as a tike to the later fast footwork that led to his momentarily standing on his toes. And then there was his freezing in a pose followed by a series of dramatic staccato movements, not to mention the miracle of moon walking and his bad-boy bumping, grinding and grabbing.

But just so you don’t think I’m a complete freak, you need to understand this. Much of my delight at Jackson’s dancing had to do with my son Evan, Evan, who when he was about eight or nine pulled me into our living room and sat me down on the couch, and as I sat there wide-eyed, proud and little horrified, demonstrated his ability to do various Michael Jackson dance moves. It was his way of letting me know that both he and his body were growing up. It was also his way of asserting his getting caught up in the dominant culture, in some of the same way he had done the year before when he learned to swing a baseball bat and hit a ball.

And so this is some of what’s buzzing around in my head as I come to our readings today which include two passages that reference dancing—David the King dancing with all his might as the ark of the covenant comes into the city and another king, King Herod, who allows the dance of a young girl and her mother’s grievance to lead to the execution of John the Baptist.

This is what’s buzzing around in my head—that the dances they did or got caught up in and the dances we do or get caught up in say a lot about who we are and what we value in life—which then leads to these questions: What are the dances, real or metaphorical, that are particularly associated with being the Christian folk? What do they look like? What are their moves and their rhythms? How are they connected or not to the dominant culture? What are their costs and promises?

But first let’s go back to the dancing in our Scripture for today—the dancing of a joyful king that leads to a meal and the dancing before another king that leads to violence.

First, King David: In our reading from Second Samuel, David has gathered together a huge group of men to bring the ark of the covenant, the physical presence of the living God, into Jerusalem, making the city both the political and spiritual center of life for the Jewish people. And in what seems to be a completely exuberant act of joy at this linking of political power and spiritual presence, he dances with all his might before God and all the people. And then he blesses the people and gives all of them food—bread, meat and a cake made with raisins.

We go from this celebration to another King engaged in another kind of celebration, a king who you might say is dancing to an entirely different tune. In our gospel, King Herod, is at his own birthday feast, a party to which only the glitterati have been invited. He has made a rash promise to a young girl whose dancing pleases him. “I will give you whatever you request,” he says, “even half of my kingdom.” Her request is simple—the death of John the Baptist is what the girl, influenced by her mother, wants. Herod grants the wish, and John is executed, foreshadowing within the Gospel of Mark what will happen to Jesus, himself, and what awaits Jesus’ followers as they try to spread the good news and carry out his mission of liberation and healing among the people.

And so while these two stories taken together move like some odd tango of opposites that don’t directly demonstrate what we might call the dance of our life of faith, they do suggest some things: The dance of the Christian life is

• Public, not private,

• Populist, not privileged

• Perilous, not pacifying.

Public, not private—our dance of faith is not private performance; it is a public enactment. David for all his faults was in our passage for today right about one thing—the presence of God in our midst should evoke a public response, one that reveals more than we or some others are perhaps comfortable with. Our life of faith is made to move with all the exuberance we can muster within the public realm--in the world of work and relationships, in the world of politics, power, and economics.

Which brings me to the idea that our dance of faith is populist, not privileged. Our dance of faith has little to do with learning to move to the tune of money, power, privilege or celebrity or imitating the moves of those whose lives seem to have these as their center. It has everything to do with listening for and moving to the beat of our deepest humanity, being willing to move toward and take the hand of those we would never have put on our dance card. It has to do with a dance that is more about bread and meat and a raisin cake for the many rather than the delicacies of a feast at Herod’s house for the few.

And, of course, it is this very dimension of the dance of our life of faith, being for the many rather than for the few that means that the dance of our life of faith ends up being for those who dance it, more perilous than pacifying. Whether you are doing the “speaking truth to power” dance that John the Baptist did or whether you are doing the “eating with and including outsiders” dance that Jesus did, to move in concert with God’s own truth telling, God’s own lifting up of those who have been left out, God’s own acknowledgement of the dignity and worth of every human being is to get caught up in a dance that invites a violent response—so suggests our story today from the Gospel of Mark.

And so why do it? Why do any of it? Why not just concentrate on learning to moon walk instead?

Unlike my son, I grew up not in the world of Michael Jackson but in the world of cotillions. These were dances in the South for the privileged white where girls dressed awkwardly in their party clothes, hugged the walls for hours while nervously talking to each other and waited for some equally awkward boy in a coat and tie to ask them to dance. I was one of those girls. I remember to this day, the boy who first asked me to dance. He wore braces, was shorter than I was but presented himself with such determination, probably motivated by fear, that I would not have dreamed of refusing.  I don’t remember much about our dance, but I’m sure there were times we were a peril both to each other and to others on the dance floor.

I know it sounds strange, so strange, even preposterous to say, but for me, the reason to engage in the perilous dance of our life of faith, is that sometime, somewhere, somehow there came a one standing before us—often in an unlikely guise—the mysterious dance partner we came to know as the Holy One, the Holy one who extends his hand towards us and beckons us to take it, who invites us into that perilous dance that paradoxically brings us life and pours out his life into the world.

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