The Unclarity of Holiness – Br. Lucas Hall

SSJE Sermons

Br. Lucas Hall

Mark 6:14-29

One of my favorite films came out roughly five years ago. It’s called A Hidden Life. It’s a Terrence Malick film, if you’re familiar with him. One reviewer called it a “grand cathedral” of a movie. And I agree, because it’s very big. It’s about three hours long. It’s quite quiet, reflective. The story—It’s based on a true story—of an Austrian, alpine farmer, living in a small, rural village during the Second World War. He receives a draft summons to join the Nazi army, and he can’t. His conscience will not allow him to swear an oath of loyalty to Adolf Hitler. He is told repeatedly that it’s merely a formality, that he can be assigned to non-violent, non-combat work. He could even be assigned to hospital work. He could help people, save lives.

No. He refuses over and over again. He is imprisoned. His wife and children are ostracized in their village. He is tortured, beaten, moved around from prison to prison to prison, interrogated. His wife is brought to him to try and convince him, remind him of what he’s giving up. Instead, she agrees with him, and encourages him, and says she will be with him, whatever he decides. So he stands firm. Ultimately, he is executed. That story has a clear hero, a clear main character, but what really struck me about the film was the way it ended with this man’s death. Because he, with a number of other prisoners, was brought to a place of execution, a military installation. It was a gray, cloudy day. They were sitting outside in a gravel courtyard area. One by one, they were brought into a dingy old building with a concrete floor and unceremoniously killed. It wasn’t a heroic setting. It was mundane, normal, dingy, depressing. And each of these people to be executed had no idea whether they were on the winning side or not. There was certainly no hint of it at the end of their lives, powerless against a much bigger foe, and ultimately killed.

I could tell you this man’s name, but I won’t. I think the title of the film, A Hidden Life, speaks as to why. The idea that holiness, that sainthood, that goodness takes place in obscurity, in a hidden way, within contexts much bigger than we know and out of our control—I find that very compelling and very true. I’m convinced that there are more anonymous saints than ones whose names history records.

That brings us to today’s gospel lesson, and I have a question about it. Who’s the main character? There are a number of potentially correct answers. The first, most obvious one is it’s in the Gospel and the opening lines are about Jesus, so maybe it’s Jesus. But he barely appears, and only in reference.

Herod is the one having the reactions, he’s sort of the central figure in terms of what happens in the story. But Herod, zooming out for a second, is a client king on the border of a vast empire. He feels simultaneously captivated and convicted by this holy man’s preaching, and he’s bound by an oath to his daughter that he regrets and does not want to carry out. This man, this king, ostensibly very powerful, if you think about this from his perspective, doesn’t actually seem to have much power.

Maybe the main character is Herodias, Herod’s wife. She’s the one who ultimately requests John’s head. But Herodias as well—she’s a woman in a patriarchal society. She has by marriage finally ascended to a place of relative power and stability, safety for herself and her children. And suddenly, that’s under threat from this holy man who her husband can’t seem to get enough of. I don’t think she’s particularly powerful in that sense either.

And of course, maybe it’s John himself. But John, this prophet, clear about what he believes to be the truth, is struck down before anything he prophesied really comes to pass, a position of real weakness.

My point here is that perhaps thinking of the main character, the main driver of events, isn’t necessarily productive. The narrative tradition of Scripture is often useful, often delightful and wonderful, but we can become too comfortable in that narrative structure with its clear path, its clear heroes and villains, its clear ending, and when we exit that setting, back into our present world, we can be left with a profound sense of unclarity. What do I do now? There’s a lot going on in the world, all sorts of competing factions and interests, and unlike a children’s cartoon, no one really self-identifies as the bad guy. Everyone thinks they’re justified in their actions. What’s the good side? What team am I supposed to be on? How does the story end?

In one way, in a broad sense, we can answer that. As Christians, God’s side is the good side, the winning team, and that victory is how things will end. But that can come with a simplicity that doesn’t fully grapple with our own struggles. How many of us really conceive of our day-to-day lives as great battles between good and evil with a clear outcome? I don’t think that’s common. Sometimes it’s just Thursday. I suspect it’s much more common to think like the figures in today’s gospel reading, a collection of interests and priorities, not really sure how it’s all going to work out, and feeling relatively powerless in the face of forces and events much bigger and more powerful than our own personal struggles.

As John knew he was about to die, I wonder, did he tremble? Did he weep? Did he regret? Did he fear? Was he disappointed that he was not seeing the end of his own prophecy? I don’t think such things are beyond the pale. Jesus himself experienced a lot of them. I can imagine a real sense of unclarity from John himself.

Our reading ends today describing John’s disciples who come to bury his body. That’s the real source of unclarity. If you’ve hitched yourself to a prophetic movement and suddenly the leader is killed, what do you do now? What happens next? Is this the losing side? I am convinced that this struggle, this confusion, this lack of clarity is more a real picture of our day-to-day lives than a clear narrative of good and evil that is obvious to all. And the reality within that is that the example of John in today’s reading confirms that a commitment to what is good, holy, godly, may not result in that clear path, that clarity, that clear sense of a neat and tidy ending. There will be work unfinished, there will be things we didn’t accomplish or see accomplished, there will be forces beyond our own control.

I would be remiss not to mention very recent events in our contemporary society. A near-successful assassination attempt against a major presidential candidate does not give a particular sense of security or confidence. What if it had gone differently? What happens next? Today’s gospel reading, of violence, political figures, moral righteousness, and confusion about the path forward is really quite relevant. What I think we’re meant to hear in this, what I hope I, and you, and all of us, can hear in this is that faithfulness to the call of God does not yield comfort or ease or a neat and tidy life, either personally or all-inclusively. There will be strife and conflict, warfare, violence, and death, and we are still called to live that life of hidden holiness, that life of anonymous sainthood.

We may not know the end, but we are to trust that these confusing things, these things that we can’t clearly parse, will be used to the promised victory of God. I believe that’s why John went into that lion’s den of Herod’s palace. I suspect he probably knew there was a good chance he would die. Certainly that confidence underlies Jesus’s own confidence in going to the cross. We might not be able to see over the horizon, but the pitched battle between good and evil that happens within the very mundane, day-to-day aspects of our lives is one we can take up again, and again, and again. This call to continue that work, I believe, is the hallmark of a life of holiness and it may cost us everything, our lives, our understanding, our sense of clarity, and that offering is holy enough.