When the Last Shall Be First: God’s Upside-Down Kingdom
Scripture Reading: Mark 6:14-29
There’s a photograph that went viral a few years ago – you might have seen it. It showed a homeless man sitting outside a luxury restaurant in Manhattan, sharing his meager meal with a stray dog, while through the window behind him, wealthy patrons in designer clothes ignored both the man and the animal as they consumed hundred-dollar steaks. The image captured something profound about the nature of honor and worth in our world – how we measure value, how we determine who deserves our attention and respect. The photographer later interviewed the homeless man, whose name was Robert, and discovered he was a former Wall Street executive who had lost everything in the 2008 financial crisis. “I used to walk past guys like me every day,” Robert said, “never giving them a second thought. Now I understand that the real wealth isn’t what’s in your portfolio – it’s what’s in your heart.” That photograph became a modern parable about the radical difference between worldly success and spiritual significance, between what our culture celebrates and what God honors.
We live in a world obsessed with metrics of earthly achievement. Forbes publishes its annual lists of the wealthiest individuals, Time magazine celebrates the most influential people, and social media platforms measure our worth in likes, shares, and follower counts. Our children grow up believing that significance comes from being seen, being famous, being powerful. We celebrate CEOs who maximize shareholder value, politicians who win elections, athletes who break records, entertainers who command the largest audiences. Now there’s nothing inherently wrong with achievement or success – not at all. But somewhere along the way, we’ve confused being first in the world’s eyes with being valuable in God’s sight. The ancient world wasn’t so different. In first-century Palestine, under the shadow of Roman occupation, power and prestige followed predictable patterns. The emperor ruled from Rome. Governors controlled provinces. Kings and tetrarchs managed territories. Wealthy landowners dominated local economies, and everyone else scrambled for whatever scraps of dignity they could find.
Into this world stepped a man – a man who would turn everything upside down. His name was John, though history would remember him as “the Baptist” – not because he invented the practice of baptism, but because he made it central to his radical message of transformation. Now John came from a priestly family; his father Zechariah served in the temple, and by all rights, John should have followed that comfortable, respectable path. Instead, he abandoned the privileges of his birthright, traded his fine robes for camel’s hair, exchanged rich food for locusts and wild honey, and left the security of Jerusalem for the wilderness of Judea. By every worldly measure, this was a spectacular failure – a waste of potential, a squandering of opportunity. But John understood something that eluded most of his contemporaries: He understood that God’s kingdom operates by entirely different principles than earthly kingdoms.
The neuroscience of moral courage reveals fascinating insights about why so few people make choices like John’s. Research by Dr. Joshua Greene¹ at Harvard has shown that moral decision-making activates two competing neural networks – one focused on immediate self-interest and social conformity, the other on abstract principles and long-term consequences. Most people, when faced with moral dilemmas, default to the path of least resistance – that path that preserves their social standing and immediate comfort. The brain literally works against prophetic courage, flooding our neural pathways with stress hormones when we consider standing against popular opinion or challenging powerful authorities. John’s choice to confront Herod Antipas wasn’t just morally courageous – it was neurologically extraordinary, representing a triumph of principled reasoning over evolutionary self-preservation instincts.
Friedrich Schleiermacher², often called the father of modern theology, once wrote, “The pious person is conscious of being absolutely dependent upon God, and this consciousness determines every moment of his existence.” John embodied this absolute dependence, this complete surrender of personal ambition to divine calling. He understood that his worth didn’t derive from human acclaim but from faithful obedience to God’s purposes. When crowds flocked to hear him preach, when religious leaders traveled from Jerusalem to investigate his ministry, when even King Herod himself was intrigued by his message, John never confused popularity with validation. Instead, he remained focused on his singular mission: preparing the way for one greater than himself.
The confrontation that would cost John his life began with a wedding that scandalized Jewish society. Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, divorced his first wife and married Herodias, who was both his sister-in-law and his niece – previously married to his half-brother Philip. This wasn’t merely a personal indiscretion; it was a public violation of Jewish law that undermined the moral authority of their ruler. Most religious leaders chose diplomatic silence, understanding that challenging royal marriages had historically proven hazardous to one’s health and career. But not John – He couldn’t remain silent. The Hebrew word for prophet, נביא (navi), doesn’t mean “predictor of the future” – it means “spokesperson for God.” A prophet’s job isn’t to be popular or safe; rather, it’s to speak God’s truth regardless of the consequences.
When John publicly declared to Herod Antipas, “It is not lawful for you to have her,” he wasn’t making a political statement – he was fulfilling his prophetic calling. The Greek word used here, ἔξεστιν (exestin), means “it is permitted” or “it is right according to law.” John was simply stating what Jewish law clearly prohibited, what every religious leader knew but dared not say. His courage lay not in discovering some hidden truth, but in refusing to participate in the collective silence that enabled injustice. You see, sometimes prophetic witness isn’t about revealing new mysteries – it’s about stating obvious truths that everyone knows but no one wants to acknowledge aloud.
Harry Emerson Fosdick³, the great progressive preacher of the early twentieth century, once observed, “The tragedy of life is not that we die, but that we permit ourselves to die while we are still alive – that we allow our spirits to be killed by compromise, our integrity to be murdered by expedience, our souls to be suffocated by success.” Herod Antipas represents this living death of the spirit. Mark tells us that Herod both feared John and was simultaneously fascinated by him, that he recognized John’s righteousness yet lacked the courage to act on his convictions. The Greek verb διαπορεῖν (diaporein) describes Herod’s mental state – he was thoroughly perplexed, completely at a loss, torn between competing loyalties. Here was a man who possessed worldly power but had forfeited spiritual authority, who could command armies but who couldn’t control his own conscience.
The birthday banquet that sealed John’s fate reveals the hollow nature of worldly celebration divorced from moral substance. Herod gathered his courtiers, his military commanders, and the leading citizens of Galilee for what should have been a most joyous occasion. Ancient banquets weren’t merely social events – they were displays of power, statements of status, opportunities to reinforce political alliances and social hierarchies. The guest list itself communicated messages about who mattered, who belonged, who deserved honor and attention. But this particular celebration, for all its luxury and spectacle, was built on a foundation of moral bankruptcy. The very marriage they were implicitly celebrating violated God’s law, and the prophet who dared to name this truth languished in their dungeon below.
Into this scene of false festivity stepped Herodias’s teenage daughter – traditionally identified as Salome though Mark doesn’t name her – to perform a dance that would change everything. The Greek text uses the word ὀρχέομαι (orcheomai), which can mean anything from dignified ceremonial dancing to erotic entertainment. Whatever the specific nature of her performance, this dance so pleased Herod and his guests that the king made a public oath to give her whatever she requested, up to half his kingdom. Now this wasn’t mere generosity – it was political theater, a public demonstration of royal magnanimity designed to impress his audience with his power and wealth. But public oaths often times become public traps, and Herodias was ready to spring hers.
The girl’s request – delivered after consulting with her mother – was chillingly specific: “I want you to give me at once the head of John the Baptist on a platter.” The Greek word πίναξ (pinax) refers to a serving dish, transforming this request into a grotesque parody of the very banquet itself. Where guests expected delicacies to satisfy their appetites, they would instead witness the literal serving of justice perverted into vengeance. Now Mark tells us that Herod was deeply grieved by this request. But because of his oaths and his guests, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. Here we see the tragic consequence of valuing one’s reputation over righteousness, of choosing public image over private integrity.
The execution itself is narrated with stark brevity. A guard was sent to the prison. John was beheaded. His head was brought on a platter to the girl, and she gave it to her mother. No dramatic last words. No miraculous intervention. No Hollywood heroics – just the brutal efficiency of state-sanctioned murder. But in this apparent defeat, Mark reveals the profound truth about God’s kingdom: which is, that worldly failure often represents spiritual victory; that those whom the world destroys are often those whom God most honors.
Walter Brueggemann⁴, the renowned Old Testament scholar, writes, “The task of prophetic ministry is to nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around us.” John’s death didn’t end his prophetic ministry – it completed it. His willingness to die rather than compromise his message became the ultimate authentication of his calling. In a world that celebrates power, that celebrates wealth, and that celebrates influence, God’s kingdom honors those who sacrifice themselves for truth and justice.
This radical inversion of values appears throughout Jesus’ teaching. For example, he taught, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” These beatitudes don’t describe people our world typically honors – they describe people our world typically ignores, marginalizes, or destroys.
The great hymn “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”⁵ captures this divine reversal of values: “Were the whole realm of nature mine, that were a present far too small; love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all.” Isaac Watts understood that when we truly comprehend God’s love demonstrated through sacrificial death, all worldly achievements and worldly possessions pale into insignificance. The cross becomes the ultimate symbol of God’s upside-down kingdom, where the greatest victory looks like the most devastating defeat, where the King of the universe dies as a common criminal, where love conquers through gentle surrender rather than brute force.
John Chrysostom⁶, the fourth-century preacher known as “Golden Mouth” for his eloquence, once said, “The bee is honored not for the sweetness of its honey alone, but because it makes the sweetness through suffering – gathering nectar while risking its life among thorns and thistles.” John the Baptist gathered the nectar of prophetic truth while risking his life among the thorns of political corruption and religious compromise. His sweetness came through suffering, his honor through humility, his victory through apparent defeat.
Contemporary examples of this divine reversal surround us, though our culture rarely celebrates them. Mother Teresa ministering among the poorest of the poor in Calcutta, choosing to serve those whom society had discarded rather than pursuing comfort and recognition. Dietrich Bonhoeffer opposing Nazi ideology from his pulpit and ultimately from his prison cell, choosing theological integrity over personal safety. Rosa Parks refusing to give up her bus seat, transforming a moment of personal dignity into a catalyst for social transformation. Oscar Romero speaking for the voiceless poor of El Salvador, knowing that his prophetic witness was signing his own death warrant. These individuals all understood that true greatness isn’t measured by worldly standards but by faithfulness to God’s calling, regardless of cost.
The Greek word μαρτυρία (martyria) originally meant simply “witness” or “testimony.” It only acquired its association with death because so many of the early Christians who bore witness to their faith were killed for their testimony. But martyrdom isn’t primarily about dying, it’s about living – living so faithfully that death becomes irrelevant. John the Baptist was a martyr long before he was executed, because he had already surrendered his life completely to God’s purposes. His physical death was simply the external confirmation of an internal reality that had been true for years.
Now this doesn’t mean God calls all Christians to literal martyrdom – not at all. But it does mean He calls all of us to martyrial living – to lives so completely surrendered to His kingdom that worldly success or failure becomes secondary to faithful witness. In our consumer culture, this might mean choosing simplicity over accumulation, service over self-advancement, and truth-telling over people-pleasing. In our polarized political environment, it might mean refusing to demonize our opponents while still standing firmly for justice and righteousness. In our success-obsessed society, it might mean measuring our lives by the love we’ve shared rather than by the wealth we’ve accumulated.
The story of John’s death is ultimately about the story of Jesus’ death, and through Jesus’ death, the story of our own deaths and resurrections. Mark sandwiches this account between Jesus’ sending out of the twelve disciples and their return, creating a literary structure that suggests John’s fate prefigures not only Jesus’ destiny but the calling of all who would follow Him. The disciples who return from their mission having healed the sick and cast out demons must now grapple with the reality that faithful ministry doesn’t guarantee worldly success or personal safety. Indeed, sometimes the most faithful servants of God’s kingdom appear to lose everything by worldly standards.
But appearance isn’t reality in God’s kingdom. The wealthy guests at Herod’s banquet, despite their fine clothes and full stomachs, were spiritually impoverished. The prophet in the dungeon, despite his chains and approaching death, was truly free. The king who could command armies couldn’t command his own conscience. The prisoner who owned nothing possessed everything that mattered. This is the great reversal that defines God’s kingdom – where the last shall be first, where the humble are exalted, where those who lose their lives find them.
As we leave this place today, we carry with us the challenge of John’s example and the promise of God’s kingdom. We live in a world that will continue to celebrate power, wealth, and influence, but we serve a God who honors sacrifice, service, and surrender. We cannot control whether our faithfulness will be recognized or rewarded by worldly standards. But we can trust that nothing offered in love to God is ever wasted or forgotten. So then, the question isn’t whether we’ll be successful by the world’s measurements, but whether we’ll be faithful by God’s standards. The question isn’t whether we’ll be comfortable, but whether we’ll be courageous. The question isn’t whether we’ll be first in human estimation, but whether we’ll be faithful in divine calling.
John the Baptist reminds us that some things are worth dying for, and more importantly, worth living for – truth over convenience, righteousness over reputation, faithfulness over fame. In God’s upside-down kingdom, these choices don’t lead to loss but to life, not to defeat but to victory, not to shame but to honor that endures beyond the grave. May we have the courage to choose God’s values over the world’s metrics, knowing that in His kingdom, the last shall indeed be first, and those who sacrifice themselves for truth and justice will discover that they have gained everything that truly matters.
Closing Prayer
Almighty God, we thank You for the example of Your servant John, who prepared the way for Your Son by his preaching and sealed his witness with his blood. Grant us the courage to speak Your truth in our generation, even when that truth is costly or unwelcome. Help us to remember that our worth is not measured by worldly success but by faithfulness to Your calling. When we are tempted to compromise our convictions for comfort or reputation, remind us of John’s example and Jesus’ sacrifice. May we live as citizens of Your upside-down kingdom, where the humble are exalted and those who lose their lives find them. Through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen.
References
Greene, J. D. (2013). Moral tribes: Emotion, reason, and the gap between us and them. Penguin Press.
Schleiermacher, F. (1928). The Christian faith (H. R. Mackintosh & J. S. Stewart, Trans.). T&T Clark. (Original work published 1821-1822)
Fosdick, H. E. (1943). On being a real person. Harper & Brothers.
Brueggemann, W. (2001). The prophetic imagination (2nd ed.). Fortress Press.
Watts, I. (1707). When I survey the wondrous cross. In Hymns and spiritual songs.
Chrysostom, J. (c. 390). Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew (P. Schaff, Trans.). In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers(Vol. 10). Christian Literature Publishing.
