The soft edges of the road were filled with hard rocks, sheep, and goats. Parking in the empty lot, we hiked the path that circled the flat-topped mountain. The landscape was pockmarked with caves, any one of which might have been John’s final prison: dungeon cells hacked into the hillside that served as the foundation of Machaerus, the Herods’ fortress. At the summit, the wind whipped across an abandoned and ruined site. It was surprisingly small. A couple of columns still stood. There was a small archway, and a deep and frightening pit in the center. For all his bravado and brash promises, what survives of Herod’s inherited, elevated palace two thousand years later is mostly sand and the sighing of the wind.

The tragedy of Herod is that he fails to learn even from his own conscience. Herod is perplexed by John, yet he shields him from the violence of Herodias until the day comes when his pride outweighs his fear of God. This is Antipas, Herod of the hand-me-downs. They called his father “the Great.” This Herod, forever uncertain of his place in the world, tries to assert himself before God and humans by hanging out with holy people—and killing them.

Later when he heard of Jesus, Herod wondered if John had returned to haunt him, still calling upon him for repentance. Later still, when the opportunity came again to stand on the side of righteousness, he failed to recognize the chance Jesus gave him for redemption. He handed him over to be crucified.

Unless we can confess to ourselves—much less to God—our sin, how can we experience forgiveness? Unless we are willing to receive the healing grace of God for our own hurts and injuries, we will be unlikely to share it with anybody else. What then will our legacy be?