Herodias laughed again. “Had he only known how afraid you are of women. We could simply have invited you to dinner to silence you.”
The Baptizer growled. “I do not fear you. I fear the Lord God.”
Herodias rolled her eyes. “If the Lord is angry that this mother seeks to do better by her daughter, let him come tell me himself. He at least is not afraid to speak to a woman. Did he not speak to Deborah, to Hannah?”
With that, she departed, leaving the prophet in darkness and silence.
Herodias descended the stairwell, leading two men covered with the dust of the road. As they gained the floor of the dungeon, she called out, “Baptizer, your disciples have returned.” She noted that a slave had removed the serving dish.
John climbed to his feet and pressed against the bars of the cell. Again Herodias placed the torch in the sconce, but this time she retreated to allow the disciples to crowd close to their master. They offered him water from a skin they had brought and some bread and honey, which he ate greedily. As he ate, the two disciples shifted nervously.
As soon as the Baptizer had finished his meager meal, he demanded, “What did Jesus say?”
One of the men said, “We asked as you commanded. ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’” He paused, swallowed.
“Yes, yes. What did he say?”
“Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them.”
Herodias recognized Isaiah’s words.
John flinched as though struck. Clearly he recognized them as well. “What else? What else did he say?”
The men exchanged another glance. “‘Blessed—blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.’ That’s all, teacher. I’m sorry.”
Herodias watched as the men prayed together. After some time, the disciples made to leave. They turned to her, obviously unsure how to proceed.
“You may leave,” she said. “You know the way out.”
The men turned back to John, who had already sunk to the floor. He waved them away. “Leave us.” So dismissed, the men left quickly, stealing furtive glances back at the queen and the prophet.
Once they were gone, Herodias returned to the stool. The Baptizer didn’t meet her gaze, and she realized he was weeping softly. “Jesus,” she said. “You sent word to Jesus of Nazareth. Your cousin.”
The Baptizer’s damp eyes found hers, and he saw surprise and a little fear in them.
She said, “You didn’t think we would discover the connection? I told you, prophet, Antipas is infatuated with you.” A kind grin curled the corner of her mouth. “A lesser woman might be jealous.
“He met your father once, did you know that? It was not long after you were born. Antipas was the crown prince, and the magicians of Parthia had declared their intentions to discover the newborn Messiah. I’m sure you know the story, how Grandfather ordered the boys of Bethlehem slaughtered.”
The Baptizer turned toward her. He had not heard that story.
“Antipas remembers your father because he was so sure the magicians had it right. He boasted to the whole council about you, born as a herald of the Messiah.”
At the mention of his father’s pride, a tear escaped the Baptizer’s eye and traced a stream down his cheek.
“Grandfather didn’t much care for messiahs, prophets, or magicians. But Antipas was always more pious. When you began preaching out in the wilderness, as you gained followers, it didn’t take him long to put two and two together. John, son of Zechariah. John, preparing the way of the Lord, offering a baptism of repentance. How many of you could there possibly be? And if Antipas could discover who your father was, how much easier do you think it was to determine that you and this Jesus of Nazareth are cousins?”
Herodias smiled. “Are you truly the cousin of God’s anointed, John? The blood of God’s anointed flows in my veins, you know. Not all of Herod’s wives were Hasmonean, but my grandmother was. I am a descendant of Judas Maccabeus—the very man whom God anointed to drive out the pagans who desecrated his holy temple.
“Is this our lot—to be related to greatness but not great ourselves? Are we puppets the Almighty uses to glorify those he truly loves?”
The Baptizer glowered. “Do not mock God’s anointed.”
“It is not Jesus I mock, Baptizer.” Herodias struggled to keep the contempt from her voice. “You are kin to the Messiah, but you yourself are not anointed, are you? No, of course you’re not. Like Antipas, you’re from the wrong half of the family. Everyone knows your speech. The one who comes after you is God’s anointed. You’re not fit to—how did it go? Lick his sandal?”
Herodias breathed deeply, then spoke again. “How different the two of you are. You eat insects, you wear sackcloth, you play Elijah in the wilderness. But your cousin travels the land, feasting and preaching. I hear they call him the friend of sinners. How that must grate on your righteous sensibilities. Is it true that he travels with women, that he teaches them? If he were in this cell and not you, would he speak freely with me?”
The Baptizer couldn’t restrain himself. “My cousin keeps his own counsel.”
Herodias saw she had found a wound. She pressed carefully. “If your cousin is indeed the promised Messiah, why does he not come to your aid? That’s what you asked him, isn’t it?”
The Baptizer looked down at the floor of his cell. Herodias continued. “‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.’” She smiled when John’s wide eyes met hers again. “Of course I know Isaiah. Do not think that because I don’t share your zealotry I know nothing, son of Zechariah. I know how the rest of the proclamation goes too. ‘He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives.’ No jubilee year is complete without the release of prisoners.”
Herodias’s voice held not a trace of laughter anymore. “I had heard Jesus’ tongue was as sharp as yours, but this is cruel. Your cousin has been trumpeting Isaiah’s mission as his own, reading that prophecy in every village across the countryside. So why does he not free you? Why answer you with Isaiah’s words but omit that promise? And then to insist you not take offense—Jesus may as well have told you to rot in prison. Why? He’s made it clear he has no great love for Antipas either. So why abandon you here?”
A new appreciation for her intelligence flashed in John’s eyes, but his pain overshadowed it.
Herodias saw that pain. “I did not think I could ever pity you, Baptizer, but I must say you are in a desperate place. You have been abandoned even by the one for whom you prepared the way—one who is your very own flesh and blood.
“I had not intended to make this offer again. But your lord and your messiah has abandoned you. So will you keep silent on my union with Antipas? Your cousin does not feel the need to mention our marriage in his preaching. Why should you? If he won’t save you, at least follow his lead and save yourself. Give your word, and you walk free right now. I’ll send men after your disciples.”
John looked away, and Herodias saw the strain in his shoulders. She knew the look of a man at the end of his hope. Had she pressed too hard? The moments drained away. Finally Herodias stood. “Well, Baptizer? Will you keep silent for my family, since yours will not speak for you?”
The prophet turned again to her, eyes aflame once more. He began to quote Job: “See, he will kill me. I have no hope; but I will defend my ways to his face. This will be my salvation: that the godless”—he spat the word at her—“shall not come before him.”
Herodias sighed deeply and stood to reclaim the torch. “For your own sake, Baptizer, I hope you truly are as righteous as was Job.”
With that, she departed, leaving the prophet in darkness and silence.
Herodias descended the stairwell, surefooted but slow. Again a slave followed, bearing a platter. From within the dish came a steady, faint buzzing, punctuated by occasi
onal thumps of something striking the inside of the lid. The queen once more placed the torch on the wall and once more sat on her stool. She frowned and wondered when she had started thinking that stool was hers. The Baptizer stared at her, his mouth set in a perpetual frown, eyes curious and defiant.
“I think I finally understand why you have taken such a special interest in my marriage, prophet. The people think you’re Elijah—the great prophet of Israel returned to announce God’s coming judgment. No mystery whether you agree. Was it you or your father who chose the costume and sticking to the diet? All very impressive.” As if to punctuate her observation, something thumped loudly against the inside of the dish behind her.
“Of course, if you’re Elijah, we know who I am. What would the hero of Israel be without his Jezebel? How fortunate for you that I seduced Antipas away from his wife! How fortunate for you my whoredoms are so literal!”
The Baptizer glowered at her. “Sin never brings fortune for God’s people.”
Herodias spat. “Sin, you say. I build no temples to Baal! I establish no sacred poles for Astarte! I worship the God of my fathers and yours. If I am guilty of anything, it is refusing to consign my daughter to a life decided by the whims of another.”
Weary as he was, John’s voice was strong with indignation. “No man is lost who submits himself to the will of God.”
“No man?” Herodias leaned in. “Your fortune, Baptizer, is to have been born a man. Do you think the crowds would have come from Jerusalem to bathe in your river if you were a Miriam or a Jael? When you call me a whore, when you decry my marriage as an affront to the Lord, are you sure they listen to you because you are righteous and not because I am a woman?”
The Baptizer remained silent. Herodias let the question linger unanswered in the air, the continuous buzz from the platter accompanying her words.
Finally she continued. “You know I was raised in Rome, in Augustus’s own house. I was raised under the watchful eye of Livia Drusilla, wife of the emperor of Rome. How to describe her to you, Baptizer? Now that she has died, she will certainly be elevated to divinity, and rightly so. She was as one of the great statues of Rome. Beautiful in the way Roman women are beautiful. Utterly composed and controlled. She was the ideal wife for the emperor. Chaste, faithful, powerful.”
A guttural scoffing sound slipped from the Baptizer’s mouth. “Apparently she was a poor teacher.”
Herodias smiled thinly. “You think because I divorced Herod II, I am nothing like bold, faithful Livia Drusilla? How provincial you are, Baptizer. Once Augustus had ascended to the throne of Rome, Livia conspired with him to take her as his wife. She divorced her husband and married herself to Augustus. Some insist Livia was little more than a casualty of Augustus’s maneuvers to control Rome. But those who say such things have never stood in the presence of Livia Drusilla. She was Augustus’s equal in every way. They were two voices singing in perfect harmony. Augustus loved her, doted on her. He gave her lands; she conducted her own business and led negotiations. None should a proper Roman woman do. But she was Livia Drusilla, wife of the First Citizen. She did as she pleased.”
The Baptizer growled. “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. It is—”
“Save your condemnation, Baptizer. You denounce as pride what you should recognize as love. Have I not told you that I act not for myself, but for Salome? My daughter is everything to me. Livia knew what awaited Salome if we did not leave Rome. It was she who hit upon the solution. She had met Antipas when he came to Rome after Grandfather’s death, when he was named tetrarch. She was impressed by his demeanor, by his audacity, by his will. And she saw by the way he looked at me that his passions are his flaw.
“It was no difficult matter to seduce Antipas away from his Nabatean wife. She is a great, dumb behemoth; I have no doubt that conversation with her is nearly as stimulating as talking with you. Men’s passions are easily inflamed; Antipas was captivated. The next morning, I had little trouble convincing him that a union with me made for a stronger nation—and a more enjoyable life.
“There will be a feast this month in honor of Antipas’s birthday. At the conclusion of the feast, we will announce that Salome has been engaged to Philip. My daughter will be as much a queen as am I. She will be among her people. Philip is a good man—a touch too prideful, but such will not trouble Salome.
“Hear me, Baptizer. I will see my daughter married to Philip.”
John shrugged. “I care not who your daughter marries, so long as she remains righteous.”
Herodias stood. “You have discovered the limits of my mercy. I am not interested in your judgment of my union with Antipas. I am not interested in your baptism or this messiah who has abandoned you. I am interested only in your compliance. Antipas is convinced your continued disapproval of our marriage will scare Philip off. Antipas has always concerned himself too much with what the common folk think—he is his father in that regard. But I do not share his concern.
“We can kill you and you will become a martyr—or you would have if your cousin were not out preaching your message. Some of your disciples will lose faith, but most will simply join his cause. My husband is wrong. You are no longer relevant, Baptizer. The way has been prepared. God is finished with you, and no chariot comes to take you to heaven.
“So I will give you one final chance. Your word sets you free. But if you refuse me tonight, rest assured that you will not live out the month. So may the Lord do to me and more also if I do not fulfill my word. I have enjoyed our talks, but my affection for your grumbling pales in comparison to my love for my daughter. Save your speeches. Save your condemnation. Save your zeal and judgment for someone who would listen. I will not. I want to hear from you only that you will agree, if not for your own sake then for my daughter’s.”
In response, the Baptizer finished quoting his proverb: “It is better to be of a lowly spirit among the poor than to divide the spoil with the proud.”
“As you will.” Herodias stood. Antipas’s feast was fast approaching, and she had much to prepare. As she retrieved the torch from the sconce, another thump came from the serving platter. The torchlight gleamed off the lid.
Herodias spared one final glance at John, who had slouched against the dungeon wall. “You will no doubt find this recipe more to your liking. Our cook struggled with the ingredients; locusts are notoriously difficult to herd. Consider this your last meal.”
Herodias climbed from the dungeon, leaving the prophet in darkness and silence.
10
The Cat’s in the Cradle
The Fingerprints Our Families Leave on Us
I’m not the only person who has awkward Thanksgiving family memories, right? Growing up, Thanksgiving always meant a family reunion on my dad’s side. My grandfather, his siblings, and all their descendants gathered annually at the Methodist church my dad grew up in, the church his grandfather pastored for several years. At least three of those long wooden tables that populate the closets of every church building in America were laid out in the fellowship hall. (Where else?) The tables were filled to overflowing, and sliced turkey and pans of sweet potatoes were brought from the nearby kitchen whenever they ran low. It was our annual chance to see cousins, second cousins, great-uncles, and aunts who were otherwise scattered across the Midwest.
The highlight of the day was always the tackle football game played between lunch and dinner. No one knows who began this tradition or why that person thought the best time for grown men to slam into and grapple one another was between large feasts. Nevertheless, somewhere around two, all the men who were old enough to play and too young to know better gathered in the field behind the church building to play football.
By the time I was in college, the reunion had shrunk, as reunions do. The football games had gotten quite a bit smaller too. At this particularly awkward Thanksgiving memory, eight of us took the field. I linked up with my uncle Craig and a couple of cousins against my father, younger
brother, and more cousins.
My brother was in high school at the time and a star of his school’s football team. He had recently reached the point where he could beat me in wrestling matches (he took third in the state of Kansas his senior year) and ran significantly faster than I. So I took great joy in one play where I stopped him on a fourth down. It’s possible I took a little too much joy; the level of peacocking and trash talk was what most would consider excessive.
My father decided to teach me a lesson and squared off against me on the next play. Whether I was in the fabled “zone” that day or just got lucky, I scored a touchdown. And because I am the epitome of a good winner, I doubled down on both the peacocking and the trash talk. I wasn’t playing anymore. I wanted to win, to be the best. I turned the game into something ugly, and everyone could tell. The football game ended shortly after that, and Thanksgiving dinner was much more awkward than usual—at least for me.
Around this same time in my life, I began to realize the men in my family have a problem: we’re stubborn. That’s not exactly the most grotesque skeleton anyone’s ever found in a closet, and we certainly didn’t invent stubbornness. But if there is a sin that marks the men of my family, it’s this particular brand of pride.
My father told me stories when I was young about the conflicts he and his father had. And I’ve seen the same stubborn sense of self-righteousness in me as I saw in them. My brother and I often compare notes on how that pride affects every area of our lives—our families, our work, our friendships.
Our families inescapably shape us. Maybe like me you are a child of divorce and grew up in single-parent homes, shuffling between blended families. Or you lost a parent. Maybe you’re adopted or grew up in foster care. Or maybe you grew up in a nuclear family one white picket fence away from Ward and June Cleaver. However we grew up, those environments and those families left a mark on us. How good or bad those marks are depends on the particular environment, of course, but no family is perfect (apologies to the Cleavers).
Empathy for the Devil Page 11