“And he went and beheaded him in prison” (Mark 6:27).
It’s hard to say the right thing as John the Baptist did. I often think about him standing in front of Herod. John could have given him a nice little comforting sermon, and been out of prison and back with his bushes in the desert before he knew it. But he didn’t.
I was traveling back home to Milwaukee on a Saturday night and the plane was delayed. A group of Englishmen was chatting together in the airport. I made myself known to them, and one of them said to me, “We are on our way to Milwaukee. What is there to do there?”
I told them my city was full of interesting things to do. “There are some super restaurants,” I burbled enthusiastically.
“We are not interested in eating,” they informed me. After telling me where their interests lay, I told them I didn’t know where they could go to indulge in those sorts of activities! I began to wish I hadn’t gotten involved.
“What do you do on Sunday then?” one of them asked me.
I thought of John the Baptist. I could have answered the man (I was sure his name was Herod), “Oh I go for a jog,” or “I read books,” or “I ski with the children.” All of that would have been true, but I knew I had to tell him what I really did on Sundays. It was hard, but I stepped out of my prison of fear and told him that I always spent part of each Sunday in worship.
My “Herod” effectively silenced me, too—but in rather a dramatic way. He just walked away. But I had managed to lift up my voice and cry in the wilderness. I was glad.
