My sermon this evening is a work of fiction. If the people and places in it bear any resemblance to reality, that can be counted as a bonus! Nevertheless, I hope you will enjoy hearing it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s called ‘King Herod goes to heaven’.
Well, I suppose I knew it had to happen someday: I’ve just died. I didn’t do too badly, really, considering the times and the dangers all around me. I was 59. But let me introduce myself: my name is Herod Antipas, and here I am at the gate of heaven, and I’m about to find out if I’m going to be allowed in or not. I don’t feel very confident.
The gates are immensely high, but I see a small hatch over there, so I’ll pluck up courage to go and knock on it, and see if anyone opens it and will speak to me. It’s not at all the way it was down below. There I was used to a palace and servants, and, indeed, service; whereas here I see I’m not at all special, and I’m having to fend for myself. Well, here we go, but I can tell you my heart is in my mouth.
(soft knock) No answer! Perhaps I’d better be more like my real self. (loud knock) Ah! It’s opening!
> Salve! Shalom! Who knocks?
> Herod.
> Herod? Someone of that name called here not 45 years ago. Are you he?
> That would be my father. King Herod the Great. Well, I suppose he’s not great now, is he?
> By no means.
> Is he here? Did he gain acceptance? He did, after all, rebuild the temple in Jerusalem. That was a good thing to do, wasn’t it?
> But did he not also command the slaughter of countless numbers of infants under the age of two years old?
> Yes, he did. Has he not been forgiven for that? Does it mean that he’s not here?
> Whether he has been forgiven or not, and whether he is here or not ... these are not matters for me to disclose to you now. What matters now is your future. What can you say about yourself?
> My name is Herod Antipas. I received a share of my father’s kingdom, and was made tetrarch of Judea. I was a Jew, like my father, and like him I was the link between the Jews and the Romans.
> So were you also King of the Jews?
> No, I was never made king.
> Oh, I’d better tell Mark to put that detail right in the next edition of his book. He wrote it in such a hurry! So how did you distinguish yourself?
> Well, do you want the good news or the bad news?
> You may present yourself just as it pleases you.
> There is nothing God doesn’t know about me, is there? As well as anything to my credit, he knows all my darkest secrets, doesn’t he?
> Yes that is the truth.
> Then there is no use trying to hide anything. I think the best way would be to get the worst things over with first.
> As you like.
> Well, as you probably know, what I am best known for is the thing I am most ashamed of.
> You mean...
> Yes I mean that I was responsible for the execution of that holy and righteous man, John the Baptist.
> And you are ashamed?
> Yes I am ashamed. I feel guilty and very regretful. And I feel frightened.
> Did you have any of these feelings at the time?
> Yes I did. When my step-daughter, Salome, came back with her demand for the head of John, I felt as if my life had already ended. And afterwards, when I heard about the miracles Jesus was performing, I couldn’t get the idea that it was John raised from the dead out of my head. That’s how guilty I felt about it. But it was too late, of course. There was no bringing him back to life, was there?
> You had John put into prison, didn’t you? How can you claim you recognized him as a holy and righteous man? You didn’t really respect him at all, did you?
> The man dared to criticize my marriage to my wife Herodias. Anybody else would have been killed on the spot. But deep down, I knew he was right, you see. my marriage wasn’t lawful. And I respected him for risking his neck saying so. But I had to have him locked away, though. I couldn’t risk him causing an uprising. He was very influential, you know. And Herodias insisted, too. She did want him killed there and then. Some people have called me weak, but they just don’t realize the pressures I was under.
> But you weren’t strong enough to say ‘No,’ when your step-daughter came with her outrageous request?
> Look. I lived a public life. I had duties not just to myself and my conscience. I had a job to do, as the ruler under Roman authority, of a people who could be very rebellious if they weren’t handled the right way. Just think about the situation. I have thrown this great party for all the top dogs – the top officials, the military, and all the leaders in Galilee. Salome came in and got us all aroused with her dancing. I knew how good everybody was feeling after that. It wasn’t just for myself that I was pleased. She had helped make my party a success, and my enhanced reputation would have a direct consequence on the stability of the whole province. Imagine what would have happened if I had not kept the oath I had sworn. Everyone had heard me make that promise to her. They would all have left in disgust, saying I had ruined the evening, that my word couldn’t be trusted, and, well, surely you can see that the consequences would have been disastrous. I had no choice but to keep my word.
> You have been eloquent in your own defence. Are you convinced that after all you did the right thing, then?
> There was no right thing to do. I knew there and then that the execution of John was wrong. But what if going back on my word and letting him live had started outbreaks of rioting in which 100 Jews lost their lives? Would that have been any better?
> So you are unrepentant?
> No, I am sorry. I was then and I am now. Sorry there was no right answer, and sorry that I said what I said. But even that was inspired by generosity. I was trapped, helpless. Everything that was right to say and do, turned out to be, at the same time, wrong. So, all I can do, here and now is throw myself on God’s mercy.
> Believe me, there is no-one here who has not done just that. Not one. But tell me, leaving aside your public life for the moment, were you at all affected personally by the things John had to say?
> John was a great prophet. He had a great following. Most people were affected by his preaching of repentance, which went right to the heart of the Jewish experience. Remember, I am a Jew. Yes, I was personally affected. Why else should I have protected him? I didn’t just allow him to preach, you know: I listened to him. On many occasions. I liked listening to him.
> But what he said puzzled you?
> Look, I’m not mentally deficient! It wasn’t that I couldn’t understand what he was saying. There was nothing mysterious or even mystical about his preaching. No, the puzzle for me was how to implement what he had to say in my daily life. I knew what he said was good and right. But I dare say I am not the only one who has found it difficult to know just how to build their deepest beliefs into their day-to-day living.
> Indeed you will find no-one here who has not wrestled with exactly that difficulty. The fact remains, however, for all your fine words, that you had him killed. Tell me, what happened after that?
> A deputation of his disciples asked for an audience.
> And how did you receive them?
> Well, I needed to know what their approach was going to be, and so I admitted them.
> And what had they come for?
> They simply asked if they could have John’s body so that they could give him a decent burial.
> And you said, ‘Yes.’
> They came with quiet dignity. They made their request and said nothing more. Not a word of accusation or blame passed their lips. It was the least I could do to grant their request. Now, maybe I had ulterior motives. Maybe part of me knew that in so doing I was less likely to be stirring up trouble for myself.
> And that was the end of the matter?
> Apart from one thing that still stands against me to this day: and that is some words that Jesus himself spoke about me. Some Pharisees went to him to tell him that I wanted to kill him too. Well, first of all that wasn’t true. I think they had their own agenda for wanting him to leave the area. In any case, I could tell that he and John were on the same wavelength. Of course I had to have one eye on the possibility of insurrection, but I was also deeply interested in the teachings of Jesus. You must believe that, even if I couldn’t openly show it.
> Go on.
> Well, Jesus called me a fox. He said he wanted to be like a hen that protects her chicks. The association was obvious: I, through slyness or blood-lust, was just a killer of prophets, like so many in Jerusalem before me. His words stung me, not because they were unjustified, you understand. And I didn’t react by having him killed there and then, as I might well have done. After all, I had the power and the motive. No, his words stung me because I knew he was right.
> And did you acknowledge that?
> There was not much that I could do. But there is just one other thing that I need to mention. When Jesus was on trial before Pilate, he was sent to me as the person with responsibility for Galilee. Remember how pleased I was to see him. I had heard so much about his miracles, but I had never seen him perform a single one. But he wouldn’t, and he wouldn’t even speak to me when I put to him many of the questions that were in my mind. He shamed me publicly. And so I and my soldiers subjected him to a public shaming. Order had to be maintained.
> But at what cost?
> At the cost of doing something, once again, that I regretted.
> But you returned Jesus to Pilate. You knew the danger he was in. Did that show regret?
> It wasn’t my business to prejudice the outcome of the hearing before Pilate, but the message I sent back left him in no doubt that I believed he was innocent of the charges brought against him. Even though I had been stung and humiliated, I stood up for him. I said, ‘He has done nothing to deserve death.’
> And so you feel you deserve to be admitted here? That, all in all, you were a good guy, who happened to be caught in a bad time, and that you shouldn’t be judged too harshly?
> On the contrary! I know I deserve to be condemned. The things I have done can’t be undone. I feel guilt and sorrow and regret. I am here not on the strength of my personal credentials or my few righteous acts, but solely in hope that God will be merciful. And, believe me, as someone who once had great power, I know what it is to be merciful. That is all I have to say.
> Thank you. I will now take your submission to Saint Peter, who holds the keys, and who has the authority to admit you or to reject you. You may know, however, that Saint Peter himself was no stranger to words and deeds that left him full of guilt and sorrow and regret.
And with those words, the hatch was slid shut once more, and I find myself alone here, waiting...