Kings and prophets

Mark 6: 14 – 20

14 King Herod heard about this, for Jesus’ name had become well known. Some were saying,[a] “John the Baptist has been raised from the dead, and that is why miraculous powers are at work in him.” 15 Others said, “He is Elijah.” And still others claimed, “He is a prophet, like one of the prophets of long ago.” 16 But when Herod heard this, he said, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised from the dead!” 17 For Herod himself had given orders to have John arrested, and he had him bound and put in prison. He did this because of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, whom he had married. 18 For John had been saying to Herod, “It is not lawful for you to have your brother’s wife.” 19 So Herodias nursed a grudge against John and wanted to kill him. But she was not able to, 20 because Herod feared John and protected him, knowing him to be a righteous and holy man. When Herod heard John, he was greatly puzzled[b]; yet he liked to listen to him.

There are moments in history when society becomes confused about the difference between power and truth, when authority is mistaken for righteousness, and when silence feels safer than speaking. It is precisely in those moments that the prophetic voice becomes necessary, uncomfortable, and dangerous. The Gospel according to Mark places us in such a moment when it tells the story of Herod Antipas and John the Baptist. Herod hears the name of Jesus spreading throughout the region, and his conscience awakens in fear. “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised,” he says. This is not theology speaking; it is guilt. It is the sound of a ruler haunted by the truth he tried to silence.
 
John the Baptist was not a political revolutionary in the conventional sense, nor was he a social commentator offering opinions from a distance. He was a prophet, someone who read reality under the light of God’s will and dared to say out loud what others whispered in private. John looked at Herod’s life, at his abuse of power, at his unlawful relationship, and he named it for what it was: injustice. Not because John enjoyed confrontation, but because prophecy is not born from anger; it is born from fidelity. To be a prophet is to love God’s truth more than one’s own safety.
 
Mark tells us that Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man. This detail is crucial. Herod was not ignorant of the truth; he was disturbed by it. He listened to John, but he did not change. And this is often the tragedy of power: it can hear the truth without obeying it. Herod was caught between fear and fascination, between conscience and convenience. He wanted to protect John, but he wanted to protect his image even more. And so, when the moment came, the prophet’s voice was silenced, not because it was wrong, but because it was inconvenient.
 
Yet prophetism does not end when prophets are imprisoned or killed. The prophetic word lingers. It echoes. It returns in the form of memory, restlessness, and judgment. That is why Herod cannot hear about Jesus without trembling. When society refuses to listen to prophets, it does not escape accountability; it only delays it. The Gospel reminds us that truth suppressed does not disappear; it waits.
 
This is where Psalm 85 speaks into the silence left behind by the prophet’s voice. “Let me hear what God the Lord will speak,” the psalmist says, “for He will speak peace to His people.” Notice the movement here: before peace can be experienced, listening must occur. Prophetic listening always precedes ethical renewal. The psalm does not describe peace as the absence of conflict, but as the presence of righteousness. “Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other.” This is not poetic decoration; it is a vision of social order restored.
 
Prophetism, then, is not merely about denunciation; it is about redirection. It exposes what is broken so that healing can begin. It names injustice so that mercy can take root. The psalmist imagines a land where faithfulness springs up from the ground and righteousness looks down from the sky. This is a powerful image: ethics is not imposed from above alone, nor does it emerge from human effort alone. It is the meeting place between God’s will and human response. When society listens to God, the land itself changes.
 
In this light, John the Baptist’s ministry was not a failure, even though it ended in death. His voice prepared the way not only for Jesus, but for a different way of understanding power, authority, and life itself. Jesus will continue the prophetic work, not by shouting louder, but by embodying the truth John proclaimed. Where John confronted from the margins, Jesus will confront from within. Where John pointed to repentance, Jesus will offer redemption.
 
The role of the Church today is inseparable from this prophetic tradition. We are not called to dominate society, but to discern it. Not to echo power, but to question it. Not to bless injustice, but to expose it under the light of the Gospel. Prophetism is not about predicting the future; it is about telling the truth about the present so that the future can be redeemed. When the Church forgets this, it risks becoming a court chaplain rather than a prophetic community.
 
Psalm 85 ends with hope: “The Lord will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase.” This is not optimism; it is trust rooted in obedience. Ethical renewal does not begin in palaces or prisons; it begins when people choose to listen, to repent, and to act justly. When prophets speak, and society listens, righteousness stops being abstract and becomes tangible. Justice is no longer a slogan; it becomes a way of life.
 
May God grant us the courage to hear the prophetic word, even when it unsettles us. May we have the humility to read our reality through the lens of the Gospel. And may we become a people through whom righteousness and peace meet again, not only in words, but in the way we live together. Amen.